Sacrifice the Innocent
by multiplicities
Summary: Harry Potter does not travel back into the past to keep anyone alive. He certainly doesn't do it so he can fall in love with Voldemort. He never wanted to time travel in the first place but when he does, it's hard not to interfere.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Yet another time-traveling fic - oh, the horror. Anyway, neither Harry Potter nor the idea belong to me. The way I've twisted the original idea of Harry traveling back in time to Voldemort's schooldays, though, might be considered mine. In other words, I am beating a dead horse.

* * *

He had been so happy. This was important.

Voldemort – Tom Riddle – and all incarnations of him were gone. The horcruxes had all been destroyed and Voldemort himself vanquished.

Harry Potter was basking in the satisfaction of a job well done. It made the feeling only sweeter to know that he'd finished a task that had been assigned to him before he was even born.

Oh, there were several things that needed cleaning up, including the mess that had been left of Hogwarts and the Ministry – but the important thing was that Voldemort was gone and people were willing to help to make their world whole again.

Most importantly, the people who he cared about were safe and well. Hermione and Ron were together, alive and well. Harry and Ginny also had nothing barring them from being together, either. Neville, Luna, the Weasleys, the professors… most of them were perfectly fine. What more could he want?

He was happy. The crusade was over.

"Give us another chance," pleaded the woman in front of him.

Harry frowned, unwilling to have something unpleasant intrude into his moment of greatest fulfillment. She had pushed her way into the crowd of well-wishers that had surrounded Harry and swept out with him in tow, her presence somehow making everyone else give her a wide berth.

Perhaps it was the tears tracking their way down her cheeks or the clear sign of aristocracy shown through her clothing, her bearing. Maybe it was even the fact that she looked as though she had lost everything. This woman looked very much like a queen, with silvered blonde hair and an imperious chin. It just made her open grief so much more startling.

It should have been a time of celebration because even the people who had lost their own could appreciate the sacrifice made as necessary for the defeat of Voldemort.

This woman alone showed a sorrow that was frightening.

"You must help us. Or do you only give your lions the chance to choose their side?" she asked bitterly.

Harry studied her, wondering who exactly this woman was. She had to be a pureblood, quite possibly a former Slytherin. There was also an impression of great age about her. "I'll do my best to make sure that all the Death Eaters get a fair trial," he promised, wondering if that was really possible. However, he would try his best because he remembered that Draco had lied for him, as had Mrs. Malfoy. He still disliked them, but he owed them that much.

"A fair trial? You really don't understand anything."

Before Harry could move, the woman waved her wand in a complicated figure. Harry grasped the Elder Wand, which responded immediately to his hand. Something about the woman's eyes, though, made him stop.

They were such a deep blue.

She finished her spell, whatever it was, and pointed her wand straight at him. He was aware of a number of lights cocooning him into a great web. Perhaps it would be better to die now, while he was at his happiest? But no, he would never go down without a fight and he didn't think that the woman really wanted him dead.

He'd have to trust her, for now.

"It's not finished yet," she said quietly, taking out a silver knife with fine etchings on the blade.

"Stop!" Harry cried out. The woman had just cut her own arm with her knife, so deep that it must have reached bone. Blood poured out, and Harry understood. _This was blood magic_. Only the witch hadn't used someone else's blood, she'd used her own. Either way, it was an abomination.

"It's all right. But you'll give us another choice now, won't you?" she asked smiling as though she couldn't feel the pain. Even as Harry watched, she seemed to grow older. Wrinkles appeared and deepened on her face, the straight back became less straight, the hair became completely white.

It was horrifying to watch.

If this was a way to appeal to his sense of honor and guilt, then it was working. Before Harry was completely wrapped up in the cocoon, he watched as the woman seemed to shrink and, finally, appeared to fall apart.

By the time others came out into that place, nothing remained of Harry or the woman.


	2. Chapter 2

He strode in, aware of the measuring gazes that turned to look at him the moment he crossed the threshold. After Voldemort and everything else that had happened seventh year, the staring of gathered children – because that's what they seemed like to him – was nothing more than an annoyance. Not even worth noticing.

It had taken him a while to realize that he was approximately fifty years back from where he had been. The not-devastated-by-Death-Eaters school might have been a hint. The newspaper he'd snagged from a passing student had helped, too. Naturally, Harry had immediately went to Dumbledore for help and been rudely awakened to the fact that the Headmaster was different. Also, he'd never known that Dumbledore had worn his hair in plaits before.

Dumbledore smiled benignly at Harry from afar. Sitting in the Transfiguration teacher's chair, it seemed as if his rightful place was in the center, the Headmaster's seat. The stooped old man, who had to be Armando Dippet, looked awkward in the large chair. Or Harry could just be biased, since he'd never seen Dumbledore anywhere but in Dippet's chair.

"Ahem."

Students slowly turned silent, not so much in response to Dippet's dry cough as because of Harry's presence. Unknown visitors were always a curiosity.

"When can we start eating?" another student called. Somewhere from the Gryffindor table, no doubt. Not everyone thought a stranger was more important than food.

"I'm sure you can wait slightly longer, Prewett," Dippet answered back, setting up a series of snickers up and down the tables. "May I introduce Mr. Harry James, who will be joining the seventh year. Mr. James, please come and be Sorted."

Harry's lip twisted when Dippet referred to him as Mr. James. He'd kept the name Harry, since it _was_ a fairly common name, just as Aunt Petunia had always said. The origin of James was obvious.

Luckily, he didn't think that he bore that much of a resemblance to Charlus Potter, who was also attending currently. Black hair, even as messy as it was, was far too common for anyone to take note of.

Harry had wanted his introduction to be kept deliberately vague, though he was already garnering intrigued looks. One girl from the Gryffindor table with red hair – a Weasley, perhaps? – smiled vapidly at him. She looked somewhat like Ginny, though not nearly as pretty. Harry shuddered.

Going up to the Sorting Hat, Harry had to wonder what he was doing here. Yes, he had found himself landing in the lake of Hogwarts. However, he was still fairly sure that he could have sneaked off.

It was most likely sentimentality. He'd seen the welcoming lights of Hogwarts, heard students laughing and wanted to be able to join in again.

Only now that he was inside and about to become an official student again, join the seventh year that he had never been able to complete, Harry realized that this was not his school.

These were not his friends or enemies or even the people he knew. The girls had done something odd to his hair – not that he could tell what, precisely – and the boys all had a faintly scrubbed appearance. It was just alien enough to make him uneasy. Harry grasped the two wands concealed in his robes tightly. Draco's wand and the Elder Wand. He'd been planning to commission a new wand, actually, so he could return Malfoy's wand but he hadn't had the time so now it looked as if he was stuck with it.

Harry looked up into Dumbledore's face, concentrating on it. Dumbledore's hair was more auburn than white at the moment. He hastily returned his gaze to the Sorting Hat.

It was odd that Dumbledore had accepted his truth so readily. At face value, almost. For once, Harry blessed Dumbledore's ability to give people chances and trust. Showing him the Elder Wand, of which there were now two, seemed to be convincing as well. Harry had told him everything. He'd expected his Headmaster to know what to do, as always, but Dumbledore had also looked puzzled.

_Be careful, Mr. Potter_.

Not that he needed the warning. Harry simply planned to attend classes like a good student, as unobtrusively as possible. Then he'd go get a job and overall do as little damage to the timeline as possible. He also planned to become very good friends with some pureblood students – surely one of them would know something about blood rituals that sent a person fifty years back into time.

Maybe they used the spell all the time on unsuspecting Muggle-borns.

He liked things the way they'd turn out, though he still wished desperately that he'd been able to save Snape.

One person was not worth the entire war, though. He had to remember that, before he started trying to meddle.

Harry's gaze swept through the house tables, noting how familiar and yet distant they looked. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin. Just like always.

_And there he was_.

Tom Riddle was right in the middle of the Slytherins. Half of them seemed to practically worship them – even though Harry was the main attraction, almost all of the Slytherins kept one eye on Riddle. The rest looked at him with fear. Harry toyed with the idea of stopping Riddle now, before he could get so powerful. But what could he do without making things worse?

He sat on the stool, feeling embarrassed at the way he had to extend his legs forward. The stool was only made for first years, after all, and it wobbled. He spared a thought as to whether or not this stool was the same one he'd sat on before in the future and why they had to make a ceremony out of one student trying on a hat before the thing dropped over his head. At least he could still see.

"Hello, Mr. Potter. I see that I sorted you into Gryffindor before. And no, even if you had learned Occlumency, it would not have worked against me. I am not a Legilimens."

_Figures_, Harry thought sardonically. _Then what are you?_

"I am the Hogwarts Sorting Hat," the hat announced rather grandiosely. Harry fought the urge to snort. Someone with rigidly brushed hair was already glaring disapprovingly at him from the Ravenclaw table. He resolutely kept his eyes away from the Slytherins. "Why? You would do well in Slytherin. Most purebloods are in there, by the way."

_Don't do that! I don't care where you put me as long as it's not Slytherin_.

"As prejudiced as before, Mr. Potter. Very well then."

"HUFFLEPUFF!"


	3. Chapter 3

"See him? The boy with the glasses?"

"Oh, the transfer student. What about him?"

"He looks interesting, don't you think?"

"I don't think he'd be interested in you. Besides, a Hufflepuff?"

"What? I think he looks hot. Just look at those muscles! I'll bet you anything that he plays Quidditch."

"Come on. Even you can do better than a Hufflepuff. Let's go already."

As he wandered the halls in search of breakfast on his first day, he heard this and other versions of this conversation many times.

He wasn't all that bothered by becoming a Hufflepuff. At least it wasn't Slytherin. He'd hate to hear the conversations that would go on if he was a snake.

Maybe this was why he'd wanted to return to Hogwarts? The joy of having other people gossip – not even subtly – about him behind his back and point fingers at him while he wasn't looking?

…Nah. He'd forgotten, in that hunt for the horcruxes, how truly _childish_ the Hogwarts students had been. These were even worse, because they'd never suffered the horrors of the war. He doubted that Myrtle's death would have shaken them up that badly, either. None of the students looked anything but self-gratifying and cheerful to him.

He made his way down to the Great Hall without a hitch, checking to see if _he_ was there. Fortunately, he wasn't.

"Hey, James! Wait up!" A panting, slightly portly boy caught up to him, looking winded. Algernon Longbottom, if Harry remembered correctly, called Algie by everyone but his parents. Harry eyed him coldly. He seemed to remember something about Great-Uncle Algie dropping Neville from a window. "Where are you going?"

With a start, Harry realized that he'd been heading for the Gryffindor table. He retraced his steps, cursing himself mentally. He'd forgotten that he didn't belong there anymore. On the positive side, he had reminded himself to respond every single time someone called out the name James. It wasn't that easy for him to forget, anyway.

"Hey, Longbottom," Harry responded politely. There was no point in burning all of his bridges yet, especially since the Longbottoms were an ancient, respected pureblood line. Even if Algie's sole purpose in attaching himself to Harry was to besiege him with questions.

"Where did you come from? What made you decide to join Hogwarts? Do you like it here? I think Hogwarts is the best magical school; just look at Dumbledore and Flitwick! Flitwick's an international Dueling Champ or something – he teaches Charms – and Dumbledore; well, everyone knows who Dumbledore is! I bet your teachers weren't anything like them, were they? I've never heard of a family called _James_. I'm a pureblood myself, what are you?"

"Would it matter if I'm Muggleborn?" Harry asked, disliking Neville's relative more and more. They were nothing alike, even while not counting the talking habits of each.

"Well… I guess it doesn't, not really, but are you? I don't think I've heard of any purebloods with your name. Are you're a half-blood, then?"

Harry shrugged. His mother had been Muggleborn, but his father had been pureblood. He didn't want to see Algie wonder aloud about the pureblood side of his family.

"Okay, if you don't want to talk about it," Algie said, discontent. "Ah! Professor Beery!"

Harry glanced up, looked into a mass of russet hair, and choked.

While Algie was pounding him weakly on the back, the russet hair resolved into a mane around the face of a dramatic face. This man had the wildest hair Harry had ever seen, but unlike Hagrid's, he suspected that it had been deliberately styled, too. Maybe deliberately colored, as well.

"Professor Herbert Beery," he introduced himself, crinkling his nose at the mess Harry had made of his pumpkin juice. "I am the professor of herbology and the Head of your House. Now, what classes would you like to take, Mr. James? Professor Dumbledore assured me that you would know best about your own academic standards."

"Defense against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Potions, Charms, and Herbology, sir," Harry responded promptly. "N.E.W.T. level."

"Quite a schedule, Mr. James." Both eyebrows disappeared into his hair. "Are you sure you will be able to manage it?"

"Yes, sir," Harry said. At least he was pretty sure he'd be fine in DADA. He wasn't looking for an excellent performance, and he was fairly sure that he'd be fine. Also, if all went well, he'd be back to his time before he ever took the N.E.W.T.s. He grinned, barely aware that he had done so. Maybe he could become a Dueling Champ, if all else failed.

"Very well. Here's your schedule."

"Wait, sir? About books and equipment–"

"I believe the money for those will come out of the school funds. Is there anything else? Good day, Mr. James." James really was a first name, wasn't it? It made Harry feel strange to be called that; maybe he shouldn't have chosen James.

"You're taking all those? I've heard that one student last year had five N.E.W.T. classes and he ended up trying to drown himself in the lake! And you're trying to get in the middle of the year? It's wicked hard, James!" Algie's voice started rattling again as the two watched russet hair retreat down the length of the hall. "Here, give me that."

Harry handed him his schedule. Algie scanned it, looking a little jealous and disappointed.

"The only class I've got with you is Double Herbology. We share that with the Ravenclaws. Beery's a pretty good teacher, I'll have you know. Well, except for that obsession of his… but he says that I'm his best student? Are you any good at Herbology?"

Before Harry could reply or ask him about Beery's obsession, many of the other students had gotten up. Chatting all the way, Algie led him to their only class together.

They managed to almost collide with a group of Slytherins also making their way through the door. Tom Marvolo Riddle was among them.

Harry stared into those dark eyes while Algie nervously clutched his arm to keep him from heading forward, so the Slytherins could exit first. Those eyes weren't red and they were full of nothing but veiled contempt and faint curiosity towards a stranger.

Harry dropped his eyes, aware that those eyes were starting to narrow at him. He'd discovered one thing – two things, really.

Tom Riddle wasn't Voldemort. Not yet. But he had already murdered his father.


	4. Chapter 4

"James."

"Sorry, you are?" Harry asked, blinking at the tall, composed figure with incredibly neat hair that formed a glaring contrast against his own. He hadn't expected to be accosted in the hallways so soon.

He had gone through an absolute grueling day, with all the students staring at him. Classes had shown him exactly how unprepared a year of camping in the woods could make someone, though his wandwork seemed to have gotten better. At least Herbology and Charms never _had_ been his strong suit. Even though he was fairly good at casting spells, the theory his teachers explained had been about as clear as mud. It looked as though he'd have to study more.

Harry almost groaned. Why _had_ he wanted to return to school, again?

"That's Caspar Crouch, James," Algie hissed into his ear, grabbing the side of Harry's robes to pull him closer. "He's the Ravenclaw prefect! Though I guess he's just a sixth year… But what did you _do_? Did you break a rule already?"

"Longbottom," Crouch pronounced tersely. Harry wondered for a moment if this person – who surely was related to the Barty Crouch Sr. and Jr. of his time – had passed down to Crouch Sr. the ability to always look well-dressed.

"See you later!" Algie mouthed to Harry, turning with commendable alacrity to go in the opposite direction. He wished he could get the talkative boy to shut up and leave so easily. Harry tensed, aware that he was alone with Crouch now, but told himself not to be too paranoid.

He was a prefect, for one thing, and no doubt as much a stickler for the rules as his relatives. Besides, it wasn't as though anyone cared about Harry here in this time, beyond being the new student.

"Longbottom comes from a good line," Crouch began, staring after Algie, "but he's hardly exemplary of all Hogwarts students. I'd suggest that you find more responsible students for company, James."

Something in Harry flared up at another person trying to tell him who to befriend. "I'll thank you not to insult my friends. And I couldn't care less what sort of blood he has."

_Not that Algie really counted as one of his friends, but he had been the friendliest person to Harry so far._

Crouch looked slightly surprised. "I was simply offering some advice, James. Though I can see why you were Sorted into Hufflepuff." There was the barest disdain in his voice when he said the house name. "Before you retired, I wanted to go over the Hogwart's rules and regulations with you."

Harry blinked. "Shouldn't the prefect for my House be responsible for that?"

"Normally he would, but Aaron Diggory is currently in the hospital wing –"

"What happened to him?" Harry said.

"He engaged in a fight. A poor example to the students who look up to prefects as their models," Crouch answered, seeming a bit put out. "After he gets out, he will be serving detention for a week."

"With who?"

"I doubt you would recognize the name, since you just arrived yesterday. May I continue with the rules, James?" he asked pointedly, with frigid politeness.

"Sorry," Harry mumbled.

He let his mind wander while Crouch informed him of Hogwarts rules with excruciating detail. Most of them were the same as they would be in the future, which was about what he expected, given Hogwart's tendency towards tradition, though he hadn't known that students could choose between writing lines, menial work, and hanging by their thumbs in the dungeon for an hour. Filch would be disappointed to hear that.

_Filch…_

Harry wondered if Filch was still alive, feeling an odd upsurge of hope that the cantankerous old Squib was still fine. He had never really wished for anything bad to happen to him, and surely Snape had felt something for his ally in finding students out of bed at night, at least enough to protect him from the Death Eaters?

But he really couldn't do anything about it.

"– And James, are you of age to Apparate?"

"Yes, and I _can_ Apparate, but I know you can't do it in Hogwarts," Harry replied, still thinking about the people of his time.

Crouch stopped and gave him a searching look. "How do you know that?"

"Her–" he caught himself just in time. "I mean, _Hogwarts, a History_."

"I see." He was quiet for a moment and then gave Harry a look of grudging respect. "I did not expect you to read it before even entering this school."

"Thanks." Harry racked his brain for other things he remembered Hermione telling him about the book, but he could only recall something about a cockatrice incident. "Is there anything else?"

"Not in particular, and if you've read _Hogwarts, a History_, I assume you already have a firm grasp on the rules. Would you like me to show you where your common room is?"

"No, it's fine. Algie showed me yesterday."

"Very well. Goodbye, James." With a slight nod, Crouch swept off. Harry stared after him, amused that just the mention of Hermione's favorite book had apparently made Crouch decide that he wasn't a moron, after all.

While traveling to the Hufflepuff common room, which was located behind a painting near the kitchens, he heard what sounded like muffled sobbing.

Frowning slightly, Harry followed it – as always, too curious to do anything else. The source was coming from a door, which, if he remembered clearly, opened into a classroom that Firenze had occupied, once.

He pushed the door open a tad, peeking around it.

Harry's breath caught in his throat. The sobs were coming from a boy dressed in Slytherin robes with a resemblance too close to Draco Malfoy and what he imagined Lucius Malfoy looked like as a student to be anyone else than another Malfoy. Perhaps Abraxas Malfoy, the one Draco had mentioned once?

He looked rather pathetic. But – and Harry gave another start – he was being hugged consolingly by a witch, also with silver blond hair.

Before Harry could duck out and pretend he had never seen anything, the girl's head snapped up and looked straight at him.

Harry backed away, heart pounding. Her eyes had been the deep blue ones of the woman who had cursed him into the same time period as that of his greatest enemy.


End file.
